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As per usual, Desmond finds himself in the common area at a late hour. Sleep evaded him, and he’s content with spending his time doing something productive rather than simply tossing and turning in bed for hours. The necessity of sleep would never be one that Desmond appreciates. There were precious hours that could’ve been spent working on his numerous projects, instead spent vulnerable and unaware.
He hates it. As such, he is settled on the couch with a crossword puzzle in his lap. The ship was silent, besides the humming below his feet of the airship, and the room was lit only by the lamp by his side. Peaceful, quiet, and perfect.
Perfect, until he hears the soft pattering of socks on the floor, disrupting his focus.
“Professor Sycamore…?”
The Triton child makes his appearance in the hall, holding a teddy bear in one arm and rubbing at his face with the other. He’s wearing his long sleeve blue pajamas, and missing the signature hat. Not exactly an uncommon sight for the boy, especially considering the time. He’s more concerned with the fact that Luke is shaking like a leaf.
“Luke? Is everything alright?”
“Mhm… didn’t know anyone was out here, sorry.” The boy pads in, and his voice wobbles. Desmond can’t make out his expression in the dim lighting. “I came for a drink of water.”
“Come sit. I’ll fix us both some tea.”
They switch spots, Desmond standing and stretching from his cramped positioning, and Luke settling down. He pulls his knees to his chest, hugging the plushie tightly.
Deciding that he’d wait a few minutes to talk to the boy, he slips away to the kitchen. He prepares some black tea, figuring it was a rather safe option. He’s well aware that the child prefers his sugar with an unhealthy amount of sugar, and he adds some milk to it as well. He pours himself a cup as well, with nothing added. It needs to be as strong as possible, lest he be lulled to sleep by its warmth.
“Thank you.” Is all Luke says when Desmond returns and hands him the cup. He unfurls to sit up properly, sitting the teddy in his lap.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
Luke nods, and the man settles beside him. It would be rude to open back up his puzzle, certainly, but he didn’t just want to sit in silence until the child finished his tea. Something in him, a long dead instinct, rose just up to the surface. Something far below the lifeless mask of Desmond Sycamore, in a dead and rotting grave, there lies some instinct to comfort.
A foolish feeling, one that he’s smothered and stomped down time and again, rises. His heart may be cold and dead, but it manages to beat nonetheless, and occasionally human emotion overcomes his logic. It urges him to reach out, to nurture, to comfort.
He will not.
A voice sounding an awful lot like Raymond lectures him about the dangers of getting attached to the child. Eventually, Desmond will leave them behind, and he will not turn back. He won’t cringe at their expressions of betrayal, no.
Jean Descole will revel in it; he will bask in his victory. Over Layton, over Targent, over the Azran and everything it has taken from him. He will look down upon them and their pitiful notions of friendship, or camaraderie. How foolish they are, to believe in altruism. Nothing is free in this world.
He will not get attached. Desmond cannot afford attachments this late in the game. At the final step, the final hurdle, and he will not look back.
Jean Descole will not.
He will not.
…
“Could you not sleep?” Desmond Sycamore asks softly.
“Had a nightmare,” Luke murmurs. He hums in acknowledgment, sipping at his tea. Is he meant to ask what the nightmare was about? Should he pry? He’s never exactly considered himself the best at social cues, and he hasn’t parsed out Luke’s preferred method of calming down.
The child was insufferably optimistic, a far cry from what Desmond was used to from his behavior in Misthallery. Considering everything that had transpired, perhaps it was simply an indication of the change in circumstance and scenery that attributed to his demeanor. In Misthallery, it seemed that his father’s stress and his mother’s disappearance contributed to some kind of depression on Luke’s part. Not entirely unexpected, but it did seem unusual for a child so young to exhibit such mannerisms.
In the City of Harmony, and again in Monte D’or, he got brief glances of what he’d seen when operating the specter. A sort of unpredictable, relentless drive for whatever his objective was. In an odd way, it reminded him of himself.
Layton did well to rein the boy in, harnessing that energy into something calmer and more productive. His brother seemed to be a good influence, at least. For the most part, when he’s not bringing Luke along into clear danger, he’s a good influence.
Desmond had seen well how the child could hold a grudge, how Luke’s resentment often burned deeply and bitterly. He sees a lot of himself in the child. A frightening amount. Layton would do well to keep Luke from straying down the path Desmond went.
Nowadays, Luke just seemed as curious and content as a boy his age ought to be. As if the months spent holing himself in his room were nothing. An impressive amount of resilience for such a small child. It fascinated Desmond, made him think of what he himself could’ve become if he was any less of a lone wolf during his childhood.
Luke seemed to have sprung back from being that quiet child he spent months with. Not always, though. There were moments when he would go quiet, or stare into space. Sometimes, when they were in the air, Luke would avoid the balconies and windows, or just sit quietly with one of the others. Small moments or catches in conversation revealing that he was wearing the same mask as the rest of them. The relentless cheer at first seemed genuine, and perhaps it was, for the most part. But there were some moments when the mask would crack, and his walls came down. He acted much as his companions often did, maintaining a pleasant demeanor void of any indication that something was troubling them. Layton in particular was reticent to show negative emotions, rarely even seeming frustrated.
His brother seemed like a tether to the boy and his assistant. He was quick to regulate Luke when the man noticed that he was getting worked up, and Desmond saw how he was capable of reining in Ms. Altava’s more aggressive tendencies. She was a fiery spirit, certainly, but at Layton’s word she would fall back.
He kept his distance from the trio. Layton had his uses, but getting to know any of them would breed familiarity. At best, it would stir up long dead feelings of friendship. At worst, it could topple his house of cards. Any slip up in conversation could lead to Layton having his suspicions that Professor Desmond Sycamore wasn’t what he seemed. For all he knew, Layton already figured him out, and simply hadn’t said anything. Such a thing had happened before.
Nonetheless, he effectively shot himself in the foot by keeping his distance, because he had a child in distress that he couldn’t read.
Layton would surely know what to do, but Desmond was at a loss. Two years ago, Desmond would know the answer. Luke was prone to brooding, and most likely wanted to be left alone. But it’s been quite a while, and the child’s demeanor is near unrecognizable from what it used to be.
Luke sets down the teacup, and the light clatter draws him out of his thoughts. He’s looking away from the older man and out the window.
He takes a shot in the dark, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s dumb. I barely remember what it was about anyway.”
“It was just a suggestion, Luke. If you’d prefer to simply let it lay, then you’re welcome to. However, in my experience, it’s best to simply talk about the things that bother you.”
“That’s what the professor says,” the child murmurs, returning to his curled up position.
It seems neither of them really practice what they preach, he muses to himself. “Is he right?”
A few seconds later, Luke turns his head to look at Desmond. There’s a glimmer in his eye, something vulnerable and hurt.
“Did anyone tell you about what happened in Misthallery?”
Oh.
He needs to tread very lightly here.
“I’m aware that Professor Layton discovered the Golden Garden there, and, if I do remember correctly, it’s where the two of you met?”
Luke nods, “and what do you know about Jean Descole?”
His eyes shift back away from Desmond’s to surveille the room, as if even saying Descole’s name will cause the man to jump out from the shadows. Desmond allows himself to be amused by the thought of himself as some kind of bogeyman for only a moment before he responds.
“The name rings a bell,” he says slowly, “I believe you and Emmy mentioned him while we were investigating the museum thefts. Something about monsters and… dressing up as fancy ladies?”
He was a little offended at the time, but now he found it a bit more amusing. To have his disguise skills reduced to nothing more than a child’s game of dress up was humorous. Ms. Altava’s delivery of the line made it clear that she didn’t hold him in high regard, but he doesn’t particularly care for her opinion anyway. Luke had assumed automatically that it was him as well. Desmond had been torn whether he should feel flattered that the child thought he was skilled enough to steal from the highly guarded museum, or whether he should be insulted that they thought he would stoop so low.
Flattery won out. If circumstances called for it, he’d have no qualms with stealing artifacts.
“I’ve met him a few times in the last two years. He was at Ambrosia and Monte D’or too, trying to get the legacies, but I met him in Misthallery. He was disguised as our butler, and I didn’t notice until the very end.”
“So he was at the sites Targent took over, hm. Am I to presume that he was attempting to find the Golden Garden?”
Luke nods, “he had this machine and was digging up a whole bunch of areas. It caused a lot of sinkholes, though I don’t think he meant for it to cause so much destruction.”
Luke mutters something about how Descole wouldn’t care either way, but Desmond pretends not to hear.
“So your nightmare was about this Descole person?”
“Kinda. He… he did a lot of things that were bad. Descole hurt a lot of people, and I just don’t understand how a person can do that without caring. At least with Randall there was reasoning. He was hurt. Really, really hurt. And that’s Descole’s fault too!” Luke is getting worked up, he can tell.
Perhaps a redirection is in order. Desmond does want the boy to get back to bed after this, after all. Talking about it might not have been the best option after all.
“Did you finish your tea?”
Luke sits back up and grabs the teacup again. Quieting down, he sips at the tea again. Tension slowly releases from his shoulders as he calms back down.
“Sometimes, when a person has been hurt, they hurt others in turn. Even if it isn’t right, it feels good in the moment.”
“That was what happened with Randall, I think.”
“Is Randall a friend of yours?” Desmond asks, as if he doesn’t know.
Luke hesitates, staring down at his tea, “He’s the professor’s friend. They used to be friends back in school, but something really bad happened. Descole manipulated him into believing that it was the professor and his other friends’ faults, and he was blinded by it. He hurt a lot of people because he wanted revenge for something that didn’t even happen.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but he hurt you? I get the sense that you hold some animosity for him.”
“I wasn’t hurt.”
Luke pointedly doesn’t say his feelings about the redhead, and that’s answer enough.
It was just a thought he’d brought up once, in the late hours of the night. A half formed last chance, that if Ascot was in a tight spot, he could hold the kid as hostage. Descole didn’t expect the idiot to actually kidnap the child, much less put him in such a precarious position.
Luke finishes his tea, and Desmond realizes belatedly that he hasn’t even touched his own, despite the dredges of exhaustion that have begun to tug at him.
Right as he takes a sip, Luke blurts out, “Descole kidnapped my mom.”
He nearly spits out the mouthful of tea, but instead chokes it down and coughs harshly. It definitely went down the wrong pipe, and he’s just hoping that his reaction is taken as one of shock at a new relevation.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Professor Sycamore! I shoudln’t have said that while you were drinking.” The boy rushes to apologize as he pats Desmond’s back.
“It’s quite alright.” He does his best to hold in his remaining coughs, “I simply wasn’t expecting that.”
“That was what my nightmare was about, actually.”
“Your mother?”
“It was kind of all over the place, but that was one of the things.”
“He sounds like a despicable person. I’m sure one day he’ll receive karma for his actions.”
Luke returns his hands to his lap, running his fingers over the soft-looking fur of his teddy bear.
“Professor Sycamore?”
“Yes, Luke?”
“About what you said earlier… do you think Descole was hurt?”
What?
“Pardon?”
He doesn’t meet Desmond’s eyes, “you said that hurt people hurt people. Is Descole hurting too?”
Once again, Desmond is caught off guard, “I suppose it’s a possibility. But it wouldn’t excuse the damage he did.”
“It explains it, though.”
“I suppose,” he repeats.
“Professor Sycamore, in that scenario, am I meant to forgive him? Do you forgive people who do bad things because they’re hurt?”
He really should have sent the child back to bed earlier. Desmond is not cut out for conversations like these. He’s not a guiding light, for god’s sake. Layton is much better at this sort of thing.
“I believe it should be looked at on a case to case basis. A judgement should be made on the person’s character. The occasional mistake is expected. We are human, and oftentimes that means we’re driven by emotion. You need to decide for yourself whether or not that person is worth forgiving. In my experience, if a person repeats their behavior, it indicates that they will continue to do so.”
His mind begins to drift, slowly, to his father.
What he recalls of his childhood before the kidnapping is little, but his father was kind and caring. Perhaps a bit stern, but not unnecessarily so. But Bronev in the present, no matter how brainwashed he may be by Targent, has committed inexcusable atrocities. Even if he were to take it all back now, and act just as he did when Desmond was young, he wouldn’t ever forgive the man.
“I had a friend that said some mean things while she was hurting. Her father just passed away, and I don’t think she knew how to get through that grief.”
The young Miss Barde.
“I see. Have you forgiven her?”
“Yeah. She’s not a bad person. She lashed out because she thought everyone was against her. Randall too. He thought that his friends stole his fortune, so he tried to destroy it.”
“An eye for an eye.”
Luke nods, “but he didn’t know that Descole was lying. And he apologized afterwards for it. I just don’t know if I forgive him, though.”
“You don’t need to. You’re within your right to not forgive someone that hurts you.”
“He didn’t hurt me, though,” Luke presses, and looks back at Desmond, “Randall hurt the professor and Henry and Angela, but I wasn’t ever hurt.” Then he deflates, “he didn’t harm me.”
“Not all hurt is physical.”
“I know that. He was hurting Professor Layton by taunting him about the accident they were in. All he did to me was leave me hanging a few floors up.”
Desmond grimaces, “pardon?”
He’d heard about the incident, certainly, and he’d seen the ropes with his own eyes, but he didn’t know about the details. What the hell did Ascot do?
Luke flushes, “er- well, he hooked me up by my pants and left me hanging from a rope a few floors off the ground. Then he taunted the professor about letting him fall in a ravine.”
The next time he sees Ascot, that man will get the scolding of a lifetime. Perhaps he’ll even meet the end of Descole’s sword. What was he thinking, endangering the child like that? What a fool.
“I’m sorry, Luke. That must have been terribly frightening.”
“I’m fine, really.” Luke smiles, and reaches a hand up to grab his hat, before dropping his hand back into his lap. “But I don’t really like heights all that much anymore.”
“Then he did hurt you. Perhaps not physically, but you carry scars of that incident.”
Once again, his temper begins to flare at the utter stupidity of the redhead, but he squashes it. He’ll never see the man again if he can help it. Working with the man had taken every bit of restraint he had, and he’s certainly down a few brain cells. Plus, he doesn’t care about Luke. So what if the child has been traumatized by some buffoon? Desmond Sycamore does not care. Luke is only on the Bostonius because he follows Layton like a duckling, and he needs Layton to make finding the legacy easier. The Triton child means nothing to him.
“It’s fine. The professor seems over it. Mr. and Mrs. Ledore seem like they’ve forgiven him too. No one seems to care except me.”
“You don’t have to forgive him. Or Descole, for that matter. From what you’ve told me, he doesn’t show any signs of remorse for the things that he’s done. You don’t need to put in the efforts to sympathize or even try and understand him.”
Tentatively, he places a hand on Luke’s back and rubs.
“That makes sense.” Luke shifts sideways, so his head is leaning against the back of the couch. His eyes droop. “In my dream, Descole replaced the professor.”
That was something he hadn’t ever particularly considered. Layton is far too smart to effectively be kidnapped or captured.
“Oh?”
“I didn’t know. That was the scary part.” Luke scoots forward, and then puts his head on Desmond’s shoulder, not moving away even when the man tenses.
He’s observed Luke falling asleep on his companions more than once. Despite his energy, the child seemed to tire rather quickly, and as such, had the miraculous ability to simply sleep in any condition. If only Desmond could do the same.
Ms. Altava has numerous photos of Luke curled up against Aurora while they both took a nap. It was quite the adorable sight, if Desmond allowed himself to think so fondly. More than once, Altava has carried the boy around or allowed her shoulder to be used as a pillow.
Most often, he ends up falling asleep against Layton. It’s always touch and go on whether or not he tolerates it. If he’s settled with a puzzle, there’s a good chance that Luke will remain sleeping against his side, but sometimes the other professor will simply wake up the child to usher him to bed.
Rarely has he allowed himself to get close enough for this possibility, and Luke was always awake during those periods.
But now, Luke is nodding off against his shoulder, and Desmond is frozen. It’s not unpleasant, but he certainly would rather not be in this position.
“I’d imagine that would be anxiety producing, yes.”
“The professor always figures Descole out. ‘Cause he always messes up on something little, and he can pick up on those things. But if he was replaced, then no one would be able to point it out.”
“I see.”
“If it was anyone else, I trust Professor Layton to figure it out. I wouldn’t worry.”
“Professor Layton is quite adept with investigating,” Desmond agrees softly.
“Even if it was you,” then Luke giggles, “I just had a funny thought. What if you were Descole right now? If you were replaced earlier and now I’m talking to Descole about himself.”
His heart leaps, and he clears his throat, “yes, how humorous.” Eager to change the subject, he asks, “would you like to hear a joke? It might help lighten the mood.”
It’s best if that seed of doubt doesn’t take root.
Luke nods, “sure.”
The boy didn’t seem to be much of a fan of his style of humor back in Phong Gi, but perhaps this one will land better.
“A man and his wife are eating dinner on a late winter’s night. They’re laughing and exchanging stories, when the man proclaims that he has a new business idea. You see, the man was something of an entrepreneur, though more often than not his ideas ended up failing. His wife was always supportive, though, and asked him about his newest venture. The man proudly proclaims that he will learn to crochet, and sell mittens during the cold winter. Surely in such a time, they will fetch a high price. On his way to the store the next day, his wife reminds him to buy enough yarn to get through the trial runs. After all, it was the first time the man has attempted to crochet. While his wife does have some left over from her own projects, it would be better to have them all be the same color. The man brushes off his wife’s concerns, and only buys one large skein. He’s very eager to get started. As expected, when he gets to work, the first attempt goes poorly. As does the next, and the next after that. Finally, after numerous attempts, he manages to create a singular, beautiful mitten. Only, when he turns back to the skein, there’s not nearly enough yarn to make a second mitten! Humbled and thoroughly embarrassed, he asks his wife for her skein of yarn, only to be find out that it was hot pink! The new color clashes horribly with the rich brown of his other mitten, but he persisted and finished the pair. Upon taking the mittens to the market, it was evident that no one wanted to buy them. He returned home that night, distraught, and laments to his wife that she was right. Another business venture failed because he was too eager to get to work. His wife only laughs and welcomes him home.”
Smiling, Desmond readies to deliver the punchline,
“She tells him, ‘this is why I tell you never to count your mittens before they match!’”
He’s expecting a chuckle, if not a hearty laugh from the boy. It was quite a good joke, if he says so himself. Instead, there’s silence. When he looks at the boy leaning against him, it’s evident that Luke has fallen asleep. His breathing is soft and slow, and his grip has loosened on the teddy bear in his lap.
“Ah.”
Well, there was always next time.
Tentatively, he taps Luke’s shoulder, which escalates to a light shaking when the child doesn’t wake.
“mm…?”
“You should head to bed, Luke.”
Luke mumbles an affirmation, then slowly gets up. At some point Desmond worries that Luke will simply fall over, so he grabs the boy’s elbow to steady him, and helps him back to his room. He opens the door and pats Luke’s back, assuming that the child will simply go in and get to bed, but Luke surprises him with a hug.
It wasn’t a surprise that Luke was small. He’s always been rather short for his age, and even against Layton he always looked rather childlike for a boy going on 13. But the top of Luke’s head doesn’t even reach his shoulders.
Good lord, he’s just a child.
“Thank you for the tea.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I appreciate it, though. And the talk. It was nice.”
Luke’s arms are still around his torso, so he just pats the boy’s back. He hasn’t been embraced in quite a while, and this certainly wasn’t a something he was prepared for.
Eventually, Luke pulls back and shuffles his way into the room. He shuts the door after a small wave towards Desmond. He’s still thrown off by the time he gets back to the couch. The crossword is waiting for him, and he sits back down. After a moment, he remembers the black tea on the coffee table. By now it’s surely cold.
A pity.
Sighing, he gets back up, taking his and Luke’s cups to the kitchen to wash.
“Master.”
As much as he would’ve preferred to make a more distinguished noise, he lets out a yelp and a rather colorful swear,
“Raymond! Good lord, I swear on everything holy that the next time you scare me, I’ll-”
“You wouldn’t want to wake the others, now would you?” The old butler is smiling at him, and he glares.
Lowering his voice, he hisses, “what are you even doing up?”
“I could ask you the same question.” Raymond takes the cups from him, and begins to wash them.
“Luke had a nightmare.”
“I’m aware, sir. That doesn’t explain why you’re still awake at this hour.”
“Must you question me? I’m an adult.”
“I trust you won’t complain in the morning, then, when you’re exhausted.”
“I do not complain.”
“I see our definitions don’t match.”
Desmond groans, “Don’t tell me that you heard my joke. I’ve been preparing that one for ages.”
“I always delight in your new jokes, master. You may tell it to me again.” His butler’s tone is barely repressing amusement, and he huffs,
“No, no. It’s not organic that way.”
“Very well. I must insist that you head to sleep now, however.”
He sighs, but Raymond is most likely correct. Desmond detests the headaches he gets after pulling an all nighter. It wasn’t worth it for a few crosswords anyway.
“Fine. Good night, Raymond.”
“Good might, master.”
Grumbling, he exits the kitchen and returns to his own room.
The bed did seem to call to him, so perhaps he might actually get a few hours in before morning. Desmond lays down face first, thankful that the beds on the Bostonius were plush and cushiony. If anyone asked, he wouldn’t admit to it, but his last thoughts before slipping into unconsciousness were hoping that Luke got some peaceful sleep.